


Blue Summer Evening

by LucyBrown45



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Married Life, Oral Sex, mentions of and suggestive of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-13 04:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyBrown45/pseuds/LucyBrown45
Summary: Credence and Percival have been married for many years. They have a son, who is struggling to settle down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this might be a bit weird.  
> Anyway, I hope it's fun.

Hector is incapable of being anything close to quiet. His footsteps are loud, he breathes loud, he thinks out loud. His very existence relies on him exerting his thunder to have eyes cast upon him like rain. He’s currently pacing outside Auden’s front door. He’s swinging his kitbag back and forth and is muttering to the porch step. 

Auden wrenches the sash window of his bedroom open and calls down to him, “What happened to quidditch?”

Hector looks up at him, mouth parted before he grins. “Oh, you know.” He rubs the back of his neck, before clenching his long, blonde hair in a first and tugging it so that his head bops cockily. “Something better to do.”

Auden rolls his eyes before leaning away and disappearing into the dark of the room. He reappears, leaning in the doorway, blocking Hector’s entry. He takes this as a challenge. He slings his bag onto the parquet flooring behind Auden, brushing the large spider plant. Auden is able to glance disdainfully at it skittering before Hector is strides forward to capture Auden’s smirking mouth in a fierce kiss. He cups both his hands around Auden’s face. He salaciously rubs the tips of his middle fingers under Auden’s earlobes to the hinge of his jaw. 

Sucking on Auden’s tongue, Hector urges forward. Pushing Auden into the hallway. He slams the door shut with the heel of his foot and gets Auden up against the wall. They rattle the slim teak table close by. The blue glass dish that Auden keeps his jewellery in threatens to tumble to the floor. Hector’s hands slide down around Auden’s throat, the edges of his pinkies pushing into his collarbones. 

The sun emerges surprised from behind a cloud and shines light in dappled through the textured glass of the door. Auden is very lucky. His parents are very rich and they like owning property. Auden’s no-maj house on a quiet tilting road in San Francisco is spacious and his neighbours queer enough themselves that nobody questions when he shouts words like _quidditch_ in the middle of the afternoon. 

He gasps as Hector bites down on the meat of his shoulder and simultaneously tightens his grip. Auden doesn’t mind a bit of fun, but sometimes Hector takes it too far. 

\---

After all these years, Credence still appreciates no-maj literature. He can feel Percival watching him. He begins reading out loud, as though purely for his amusement,“…were too busy being born, being married, begetting, working, dying. It mightn’t be a bad thing, if you could manage it, to feel yourself one of them, one of the ruck of men. Our civilization is founded on greed and-“

“Alright, alright.” Percival rolls his head back on his neck, but where his hand is already resting on Credence’s shoulder, squeezes affectionately. “I’m not sophisticated enough for this no-maj social commentary.” He shakes the _New York Ghost_ and re-crosses his left leg over his right. Credence presses his back more firmly into Percival’s side and smiles quietly down the book. 

It is Friday and this is how they always spend the start of their weekend. A sweet supper of bread pudding and coffee, before slow tumblers of whiskey. In the winter, they will light a fire in the grate to keep the chill of the New York snow out of their family brownstone. In the summer, Percival might put music on. Today, despite the warm temperature, he has pulled Credence close. 

Needing the feel him existing next to him, alive and well and content. Needing to feel Credence’s reading quirks, his careful head tilt when something makes him question, the biting on his skin of his thumb knuckle when a plot line makes him nervous, him wiggling in his seat when something good happens. 

Credence absent-mindedly flicks the corner of a page. “The boys are visiting for the weekend.”

“Yes. Hector did mention.”

“I’m going to buy strawberries. For the occasion.”

“That’ll be nice.”

Credence turns, curling his long legs from where they’re stretched out over the arm of the dark green loveseat to tucked up against Percival’s thigh. Percival’s eyes don’t leave the page of the newspaper. A journalist has got a bee in his bonnet about another no-maj war and the very words are giving Percival heartburn. 

Credence touches his palm to Percival’s chest. “What’s wrong?” 

Percival takes Credence’s small, pale hand in his and breathes in deeply through his nose. “Nothing.” He looks into Credence’s dark eyes and means it. “Nothing at all.” He kisses him conservatively on the top of his head. Credence’s thick black curls have the comforting scent of lavender. “Although.” He moves the newspaper to one side. “I do worry about Auden.”

An unsure wrinkle crosses Credence’s brow. “Why?”

“He’s old money.”

“You’re old money.”

Percival sighs and stretches his hand out to the end table. He runs a finger around the edge of his glass of whiskey. “It’s different. We brought Hector up differently.”

Credence sits up. His silk dressing gown slips from his shoulder, making it appear as though a silvery-blue _Mandarin Duck_ is making a bid for flight. “You mean because I’m me?”

“No. No-not. Not because you’re-“

“Because I’m poor.” Credence shifts to the end of the sofa. “Because I have no family.” He moves his arm in a sweeping gesture of the room, wide sleeve billowing angrily. “Because I’m not a wizard.”

Percival takes a sip of his drink as Credence stands. His bare feet peek out from the drape of his dressing gown. His tiny toenails painted a cheerful peach. Percival leans forward and puts his glass down on the midnight lacquered gold-leaf coffee table that now separates them. He leans his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands together. Looking up at Credence, he waits. 

Credence turns to the fireplace and lays a hand down on the mantle, narrowly avoiding the demise of a _Jasperware_ vase. His small chest heaves and his mouth thins. He runs his fingertips through the hair that has fallen across his face. 

“None of those things apply to you.”

Credence’s head snaps towards his husband. “They did.”

Percival steps over to Credence. Takes his head in his hands and kisses him. Pushes his mouth against the rose-red of Credence’s. Smoothes his tongue against the flat of his lover’s, when he opens his mouth, hands clenching around Percival’s wrists, to continue shouting. 

He pauses and smiles at Credence. Kisses the tip of his nose. “Hector is fine young man. Auden is a spoilt boy. That is what worries me.”

Credence blushes. “Oh.”

\---

In Auden’s white bedroom, Hector has the top bone of Auden’s spine under his palm. The pressure there keeps Auden’s face turned into the cotton of his pillow. The wool of the duckling yellow blanket is rough against Auden’s knees, but he can’t feel it. Only the sweat-damp of Hector’s hand against his back. 

He can’t feel the heat of his leaking eyes. Hector’s hips are the only other point of contact. Him thrusting his dick between the red raw skin of Auden’s thighs. He can’t feel his own arousal. He’s forgotten if this is something he enjoys. If this is something he moans for. 

Hector moves his hand and takes Auden’s ribcage between his blinding grip. Leans down to kiss at the back of Auden’s neck. Kissing over the strands of sweat darkened hair. Hector’s chest covers Auden’s back and he comes like that, panting into Auden’s ear. 

Auden pushes him away. Sits up quickly. Uses both hands to push his wild curls away from him face. Takes in great lungfuls of air. He frowns down at Hector when the dark spots clear from his vision and he notices he is hard and loverboy has done nothing to help him out. 

He takes himself viciously in hand. Hector smirks at him with glinting blue eyes. Auden finishes quickly and just to be spiteful smears his emission over Hector’s tanned stomach. 

Quicker than Auden’s ever seen Hector moves in quidditch, Hector grabs his forearm. Holds it tight, the flesh bulging red in the spaces between Hector’s fingers. Auden watches Hector’s knuckles turn yellow and says nothing. Hector lets go. He sighs. “I love you.”

Still sat on his knees facing Hector. Unsure if it’s safe to move yet. “I know.”

Hector kisses his wrist, up his arm limp in his hands. Skin slowly returning to marble normal. Bruises later maybe. He pulls so that Auden has to shift to sit in Hector’s lap, his back to him. Hector pushes, laying them so that they curl cat-tailed around one another. 

Auden thinks about how much time he spends facing away from Hector. His shadow that he knows inside out and yet, can never quite see. As he drifts off to sleep, Gracie Field’s ugly voice crackles out from a distant radio. “It shot up like a rocket, 'til it's nearly reached the sky…”

\---

“I got you something,” Percival calls as he arrives home. He strides into the kitchen and places the small, eggshell coloured box onto the table. 

Credence isn’t but two paces behind him and comes to stand next to his husband. He folds his arms and half-heartedly frowns at the box. “What have you been buying?”

He bites his bottom lip and jiggles his knee before clasping the lapels of Percival’s coat. “What have you bought?”

Percival wraps his arms around Credence and kisses him. “You won’t know if you don’t open it.”

Credence rushes the ribbon away and lifts the lid. He gasps and he can feel tears prick at the edges of his eyes. He’s so lucky. Percival is his husband. This man who loves him and wants to buy him things that sparkle like the sun on the sea. 

He throws his arms around Percival’s neck. Diamonds hidden inside his fist. Percival’s shruggring out of his _Gabardine jacket_ and he nearly loses his balance. “Woah, hey. Here. Let me put it on you.” He mouths quirks in pleasure at Credence’s happiness. 

Credence turns so his back is facing Percival. He carefully lowers the string of jewels onto Credence’s breast and links the clasp at the top of his spine. He leans over and kisses Credence’s cheek, catching the glitter in his line of sight. “Perfect.”

Credence twists so that he can kiss Percival. He rubs the flat of his hand over Percival’s chest. Kisses his top lip. Kisses him open-mouthed, soft and wet. Moans loudly and appreciatively. Percival urges forward, lifts Credence up onto the edge of the table by the backs of his thighs. 

His hands gentle over the delicate curve of Credence’s bare shoulders. The thin straps of his coral slip, melting. Credence wraps his legs around Percival’s waist and hurriedly unbuttons his tailored pants. He reaches into the slit of his union suit for his hardened length at the same time as Percival mutters the filthy spell that makes Credence shiver. 

Percival pushes in, to the hilt. Credence is tight and so hot inside. His head tips back and Percival nips at the underside of his jaw before pulling back out and repeating the motion. His hand works soothes over Credence’s tailbone, matching their thrusts. 

When Credence rests his head on Percival’s collarbone, whispering, “Nearly. So close.” Percival takes him in hand and pumps him to completion. The sight of Credence spilling milky white onto his pretty petticoat, the attention-seeking flash of the new purchase around his neck, marking him as Percvial’s husband has him coming inside him. “You’re beautiful. So beautiful. You’re perfect.”

Credence holds Percival close. The intimate heat of him penetrating through his shirt and waistcoat. Their breath coming loud and uneven. As they fall back against the creaky table, Credence giggles and accidently kicks Percival in the shin. His fingertips dig into Credence’s ribs in retaliation and their laughter rings out. 

\---

Hector’s mother is nothing like Auden’s. In an odd way, Auden often ponders how he and Hector might have been switched at birth. Mr Graves, as Hector’s mother insists on being called, is slight and narrow but manages to take up all the space in any room. He wears his hair old-fashioned, soft curls and short bangs. His long limbs absconded in pastel coloured, floating chiffon pantsuits make him appear at once ephemeral and yet, Auden considers, well-prepared. 

Auden mentioned to his own mother that Mr Graves bore a striking resemblance to the now unheard of, no-maj movie actress Clara Bow. She had tapped his wrist for that and told him yet again that it was inappropriate to talk of non-magical culture so casually. And that, in fact, she highly disapproved of Mr Graves’s encouragement of his husband’s interest in the fashions and the talk of such … humans. 

It was difficult to talk to his mother about numerous subjects. Mrs Hanssen had met her future American husband while they studied at Durmstrang together. She had improved his Norwegian, much to the delight of his family. He had an ancestral fortune waiting to be inherited in New York, much to the delight of hers. 

As Hector kisses Mr Graves on each cheek, his blonde hair simmering in the orange light of the sitting room, his rosy cheeks, his broad shoulders clapped by his father, Auden wonders if they could swap. If Hector could go upstate and fight over who gets the largest dinner portion with his father and play with the pups of his mother’s _Garmr_.

Mr Graves looks at Auden and in a voice that is always more delicate than he expects says, “Hello.”

“Hello.”

He takes Auden’s hand as if to shake it, but instead tenderly holds it for just a beat. His eyes flicker to Auden’s cheekbone and he brings his index finger up to carefully tap against his own. “You’ve got-.” His eyebrows draw down, but rise into his hairline juts as quickly. He smiles. “Come into the kitchen. I have strawberries.”

\--

It’s getting late and Auden would very much like to retire to bed. He’s in the upstairs bathroom, just taking a moment. Carefully washing his hands. The bathroom is testament to Mr Graves’s preference for lavender. A tall vase sits on the windowsill holding a too-big gathering of lavender stems, there are watercolour inks of lavender bushels on the tiles and the soap Auden is using is tinted soft purple. 

In the mirror his own hint of lavender looks back at him. He still hasn’t quite got the hang of concealment charms. 

On his way back down to the small family gathering, he hears voices that make him pause in the soft glow of the hall’s mahogany floors and medieval umber portraits. Some of the portraits have hushed Irish accents, but they are quiet now. The Graves family all have the same dark brooding look that Hector’s parents have. Auden leans on the dark oak of the banister to listen. 

“If I find out that you’re the type of man who doesn’t know how to keep his hand to himself, I swear to God Almighty, Hector.” 

Hector laughs dismissively and places a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “There is no God, silly.” He wrinkles his nose. His perfect teeth wink at Credence.

Credence lunges at him and at a foot shorter he reaches for Hector’s elbows. His long nails dig into the thin skin there and Hector yelps. Credence’s eyes gloss white and a shimmering that could be mistaken for the texture of the ice ostrich feathers of his collar takes over his small frame. 

Hector feels a novocaine shock from the joint in his arms up to his molars. Mother and son are silent and still. 

“Everything okay?”

Credence releases Hector lightning quick. Brushes a hand down his front, before reaching out and doing the same to Hector’s navy blazer. 

Percival’s eyes track his husband’s awkward movements and notes the scent of lingering ash in the air. 

“We’re fine, darling.” Credence smoothes a hand over his hair and reaches up to fix the wayward strands of blonde over Hector’s ears. Hector encloses his mother in a hug to stop his fussing. Over Credence’s shoulder, his eyes meet Auden’s.

His father has a glass of port in each hand and declares that one is for Hector. He lofts one gently into the air. “Come on.”

Hector follows him outside to the back yard. They sit on flimsy bamboo chairs that Credence had picked to match the stakes helping the roses grow straight. Percival passes him a drink and lights a cigarette for them each. “Don’t tell your mother.” He raises a thick eyebrow and grins around the filter. He’s joking. Credence is no dame. 

Hector scoffs. No dame indeed, he thinks. His mother’s magic is wild. He remembers being home from _Ilvermorny_ , it must have been the Christmas break of sixth year. He found himself disastrously drunk at old Bunny’s house, about to apparate, when Credence had appeared. He seemed seven feet tall. Black ink ivy-trailing Hectate around his wrists. They’d cried together in Hector’s bed that night. His mother so scared that he could have hurt himself. Hector just plain terrified. 

Percival glances at him and Hector rubs the back of his neck. Always slightly embarrassed around his father. Percival takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving his son. 

“It’s just-“

He doesn’t interrupt his son. He sits back in his chair and waits for Hector to tell him what’s on his mind. 

“You’re so in love with mommy.”

He wasn’t expecting that. He crosses his right knee over left and leans into the arm of the chair. 

Hector sits with his legs spread wide. Above him the sky is summer night Prussian. “I think I feel like that about Auden. And then.” He rests his glass on his knee. “And then it’s not right.”

Percival hums in the back of his throat thoughtfully. It’s been a long time since he considered his and Credence’s relationship. Just before Hector came into their lives, he might have pondered it. Even then he doesn’t think he ever suffered what his brother or Theseus had, the collywobbles, the doubts that they were allowed such devotion. 

Credence and Percival had met on the other side of the Devil’s to do list to find one another and to make every day one worth living and so. It was something he didn’t dwell on, beyond whether he should really be indulging Credence’s sweet tooth for cheesecake or pearl hair slides or decorated letter paper. 

Percival coughs. “Is Auden still thinking about moving to Boston?”

Hector’s eyes widen. “Oh. Well, yes. I suppose he is. It would be a good opportunity for him.”

“Maybe you’ll decide to come home. To New York.” Percival waves a hand at the kitchen door. “Not here. You wouldn’t want to move back into your nursery.” He grins at Hector and Hector huffs a self-deprecating laugh.

\---

In the hall, Credence and Auden sit at a low oak church bench. Facing the forest of _William Morris_ wallpaper and given the night’s warmth, it feels a bit like sitting in a greenhouse. 

“It’s an aspidistra,” Credence says nodding at the vast plant growing from a large porcelain pot set near the lowest step of the staircase. “Sturdy. A good houseplant.” 

“Oh?”

“Hmm. Yes, just a houseplant really.” Credence brushes a hand over his knee. He tilts his head to get Auden to look at him. “Funny lives they lead. All dolled up, nowhere to go. Expected to keep on growing even when they’ve been forgotten or shuffled from room to room.”

Auden nods. Mr Graves is a strange man. But he respects him greatly. Looking like he does, he supposes some people might find Mr Graves weak or unsure. He’s not at all like that. He knows the answers to everything and is unashamedly himself. 

Auden’s mother had ill-equipped him to take care of a house without an elf and so when he had asked Mr Graves if he could teach him domestic magic, he had laughed. 

Mr Graves had used a no-maj communication device and hired a no-maj, young lady to come service Auden’s house twice a week. Despite breaking the laws his own husband had helped to reform, he told him it would make him an upstanding member of the community to treat her well and pay her well. And his home would always smell sweetly of lemon. Mr Graves was right, of course. 

He looks as though he might be sad now. Auden daringly reaches out and takes Mr Grave’s hand from his knee. Their silver rings clink together. “I want you to know that I love your son, very much.”

They stare at each other. This fragile understanding sand trickling between them. They startle at Percival’s low voice rumbling from the kitchen. He’s going to make coffee. Hector’s head appears in the doorway. He smiles at his mother and Auden and their conjoined fingers. He kisses their cheeks. One each. Token of his affection. “I’m going to choose a record.” He holds his hands up. “I’ll be good, I promise!”


	2. Chapter 2

Once, Hector caught his parents having sex. He’s eleven and having a hard time at school. Madam Moreau had been concerned about his transition to boarding life and had recommended that he spend a week learning from home. He’d cried for two days, thinking that he was being suspended. 

His mother had plied him with cinnamon-pumpkin juice and let him spend as long as he wanted in the bath, practising his heating spells on the water and colour charms on the soap bubbles. The affection hadn’t stopped him from waking in the middle of night. He’d resolutely refused to give in to the urge to burrow in between his parents in their soft bed, but tonight he can’t stand it. There’s a burning tucked into the corners of his ribcage at his waist. It feels a bit like magic. A lot like anger. But it reaches up, arches over his spine, tickles at the back of his mind and makes his eyes sting with tears. 

It’s early in the morning and so he’s quiet, feeling is way along the corridor by muscle memory, forgetting his wand under his pillow. He tiptoes up to their door, but doesn’t think to knock. He’s surprised to see the bedside lamp lit, illuminating his mother’s face. His mouth is parted, his chin tilted up and curls spilling onto the lace filigree of the pillow that has been shuffled to hang over the edge of the bed. 

His father’s hand is wrapped around his mother’s throat and his forehead is pressed to his pale breast that shimmers in the glow from under the coloured glass. They’re covered by the maroon bedspread that Hector loves, but his father’s back undulates and he can see his mother’s tiny foot twitch around the edge of the blanket, his ankle curling. His mother gasps and his hand appears from under the blankets to clutch at his father’s spine, slight fingertips digging into the soft flesh. His father turns his head and seals his mouth over his mother’s. Hector hears a rumbling moan and shuts the door. 

When it is properly morning, with fall sunshine dabbling across their breakfast table and mother has passed him a milky cup of tea, he can’t keep it inside anymore. “Why did you let daddy do that to you?” Hector’s forehead is wrinkled in worry and he pulls the sleeves of his mint green pyjamas over his hands. 

Two spots of pink flush at the edges of Credence’s cheekbones and he looks up his husband who is walking over to them, hand lazily in the air beckoning toast to follow him. His face remains stoic as he takes a seat next to Hector and the toast settles into the gold holder. 

Before Hector received his Ilvermorny letter, Mr and Mr Graves had sent him to a day school each morning. The school was highly progressive and prided itself on thorough sex-education, no-maj relations and the law, and a holistic attitude to traditional magical studies. 

Percival begins buttering a slice a toast. “What do you mean, son?”

Hector shuffles in his seat. Angles his body away from his father. “Mommy let you take … him.”

Credence frowns at Percival and Percival puts the buttered toast onto Hector’s plate before looking him carefully in the eyes. “Hector.” He clears his throat. “Hector, tell me what you know about sex.” Percival is beginning to see what Madame Moreau meant about Hector. He is a very sensitive child. He thinks the day school babied him. He thinks, to some extent that Credence babied him more. 

His son is blushing a deep scarlet over the back of his neck and to his earlobes. He’s pinching the corner of the slice of toast between thumb and forefinger. He shrugs. Credence reaches out and takes Hector’s wrist softly in his hand, to stop him playing with his food. Credence is smiling gently at him, but Hector won’t look up. Hector sighs. “I just don’t think you should do that.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Percival resists the urge to groan. He glances at the clock. He has to be at work soon. “Having sex-“

His husband interrupts him, “Darling. Hector. Sex is a very special gift that people who love one another share.”

Sweet Morgana. Percival’s eyes are flickering, he’s battling not to let them roll into the back of his head. 

“Sex shouldn’t be a secret. It’s private, yes, but not a secret.”

Percival reaches for his tie, hung on the back of his chair and begins knotting it at his throat. “Hector, what did that blasted school tell you sex was?”

Hector looks up at his father’s language. His mouth pouting in a small grin. He wrinkles his nose. “I know what sex is.” He takes a bite of his toast and speaks with his mouth full. “Mister Gregory said you shouldn’t do it. Unless it was an emergency.”

“Yes, well. You’re not married.” Percival stands up and leans down to cup the back of Hector’s head. He places a kiss on his crown before walking over to Credence and doing the same. He pulls his stern trench coat on and disapparates from the hall. 

For a long time, Hector and his mother stay silent. Hector eats his toast. His mother strokes his wrist. Eventually, Credence pushes his own plate with just a grapefruit rind left, away from him and folds his hands on the table. “In the no-maj world. They’re very.” Credence looks out the window. “Shy. In front of one another. By themselves, too. They are shy in front of God.”

He looks at Hector. “It took me a very long time to not be shy.”

Hector sips his tea and his mother bustles around the table, silk dressing gown billowing and sweeps him into a hug, china cup awkwardly held aloft. Hector giggles and decides that Mr Gregory probably didn’t suffer emergencies as often as his parents. 

\---

He’s fourteen and it’s Christmas Eve. He’d been allowed to open one present. He knows mommy had listened when he had told him about the tiny bricks that can be charmed to assemble themselves into any building you can imagine. He knows too, though, that daddy had insisted on buying everybody new shoes for the New Year. 

Good luck, but a bad present for Christmas Eve. Ever pragmatic, Hector hasn’t wanted to risk opening the shoes and had opted to share the expensive marzipan dates daddy had bought mummy instead.

He’s thinking about this as he’s snuggled in bed. The covers tucked in tight by his father. He can still smell his mother’s perfume. New that evening. He fans his hands, fish like at his thighs, trying to pull the covers tighter if possible. He feels engulfed by the warmth, swathed in comfort. He’s hard under the sheets. 

There’s a girl at school, the year above him. She looks like his father. She’s got thick eyebrows and a roman nose. He experimentally rolls his hips. They’ve played one-on-one quidditch together and she, laughing gaily had knocked him off his broom. He closes his eyes at the feeling of the heavy layers of blankets against his cock. He imagines the wood of his broom between his legs. 

Imagines her, Stephanie, fallen from her own broom, safely landing on top of the blankets and then more blankets on top of her, pushing them together. Cocooned tight, safe and secure. Unmoving, but her hair failing into his eyes, scented of lavender. He shudders through a silent orgasm. Dares not to move, not wanted to spread the mess. Not wanting to break free from his cave. He stays still, his limbs heavy, his eyelids heavy too and falls asleep. 

\---

“I just feel conscious that-“

“Stop it, Auden.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t-“

“Don’t go on with this, Auden.”

Auden sits heavily down on the sofa, hangs his head, elbows on knees, his hands dangle where his wrists trap his neck. Hector strides past him, wand in the air summoning a drink. Expensive vodka that Auden’s father had brought the last time he visited. It’s very late at night. The sky is splitting pale yellow over sleepy navy. Auden’s stomach growls, expecting breakfast after having been kept up so long. 

Hector stands in front of him and Auden looks up. Hector still has his letterman jacket on from homecoming. He still has the uneasy tension of a quidditch win knotted in his shoulders. The training, the long training built up to a crescendo that for Hector, the cheers of the crowd, the celebratory dinner, the late drinks hasn’t managed to burst. 

He puts his drink onto the _Ruhlmann_ table and pushes his way onto Auden’s lap, legs straddling his thighs. He leans forward so that Auden has to sit back and drapes his arms over the edge of the sofa. Auden’s hands come up to Hector’s waist. He turns his head to the side as Hector’s mouth ghosts over his cheek. Hector nips his nose in retaliation. 

“Come on,” he whispers into the curve of Auden’s neck. He rocks his hips, rubs his erection against Auden’s stomach. He abruptly turns, forcing Auden to catch him, hand grabbing at his hips. Hector puts his hands on Auden’s knees and grinds his ass against Auden’s cock that is growing in interest. Auden tips his head back, eyes falling to half-mast. “Hector…”

Auden met Hector in a no-maj Philosophy class at the Mission Kaknu University, San Francisco. It’s a class in its very first semester and is a direct result of Director Graves’s reformation of wizarding no-maj relation laws. Many higher education institutions had taken up the extra funding offered to provide such lessons. It’s just the law of the land that Auden finds himself in his class with the son of the man whose idea it was.

Hector introduces himself by telling Auden to move his brown dragonhide book bag from the seat next to him, slightly hunched, already nearly sitting. Auden had looked around the empty lecture theatre, which they’d both arrived twenty minutes early to and sighed. Hector had taken out quill and ink and jabbed his elbow into Auden’s side. “Hector Graves.” He held his hand out and Auden shook it. “Hello.”

He allows Hector to force his knees together tight so that he can rub off by rocking his hips down forcefully. He allows Hector to sit in his lap at nearly twenty pounds heavier than him, crushing his flagging erection. He allows Hector to lay back against his chest panting, beginning to doze. He strokes a hand over Hector’s brow, pecks at his check. 

\---

Sat at his dressing table, Credence’s knees are sharply outlined by the drape of his gown. It pools elegantly at his feet, but the dramatic effect is tampered by a small boy sat on the tastefully black fabric. Credence doesn’t mind Hector patting his hands at the dress. There’s always the ironing spell he’s mastered recently. 

He looks in the mirror and delicately places his right fingers over left, a natural platform, and neatly positions his chin over them. He feels the usual tingle of nerves as his magic tickles through him and out into the world. His eyelashes thicken, his lips taint a deep red and the gold wreath of an _Elsa Schiaparelli_ necklace falls gracefully over his collarbones. He is ready. 

Credence hooks his hands under Hector’s armpits and tugs him into his lap. Hector ignores the glittering of the necklace in favour of the texture of the dress strap closest to him and begins the pat the thin string of satin with enthusiasm. Credence turns him so that he too faces the mirror. “Here. Lemme try.” 

He wraps his arms around Hector’s tummy and Hector pauses in his babbling, recognising himself and his mother in the mirror. Credence leans his cheek against Hector’s head. The blonde curls turn dark to match his mothers and a small glass dragonfly hairclip tucks it back to give the effect of brushed away bangs. Credence puts his cheek up against Hector’s and blue eyes flood brown. “There. We look the same.” 

Credence hears Percival approaching from the doorway and can see him in the mirror, admires his neatly tailored tuxedo. His husband places a warm hand on Credence’s bare back. With a careful stroke of his free hand Hector’s appearance rights itself and the boy wiggles in delight, turning to smile at daddy. “There’s my boy,” Percival croons. 

He moves his hand up Credence’s back, strokes at his neck before tucking his index finger under Credence’s chin, turning his head so that he can kiss him. “Hello beautiful.”

\---

Auden is stood in the hall, staring at the _Edward Colonna_ broach in the glass blue dish. It’s a swirling gold thing, punctuated with emeralds that he knows Hector bought for him to remind him of his Ilvermorny house. It’s damn ugly and Auden is going to have to pin it to his lapel and when Hector’s mother comments on it, which he will, because he likes no-maj design, Auden is going to have to smile and declare how special and precious it is. Auden half suspects that Hector had bought the broach with his mind cast on his mother. 

They go to wizarding Greenwich for dinner and Auden feels like he’s going to cry. Mr Graves apparently has a friend who owns a restaurant. Auden was led to believe that Hector’s mother rarely left the house, let alone make friends with business owners. Auden’s not a snob. He’s not his mother, but the lives of the bohemians overwhelms and bewilders him.

It’s busy inside Reuben’s, but the owenr graciously kisses Mr Graves cheek, winks at Percival at his audacity and settles them at a table to the side of the stage. A wizard with a Selznick voice and Merlin robes is singing unassumingly, gentle background noise. They take their seats, Hector and Auden across from Mr and Mr Graves. As Hector’s father orders wine, his mother notes, “Gosh. What a pretty broach.”

Auden shuffles his cutlery and unfolds his napkin. “Thank you, Mister Graves.”

After a pause in which Auden does not fill with the story of the broach, Hector does it for him. “I bought it on that trip to Nice. Look.” Hector brushes his thumb against a flourishing stem of gold. “It’s a Horned Serpent.”

Percival laughs softly and raises a knowing eyebrow at Auden. Auden looks down at the table, embarrassed at his shared indulgence with Hector’s father. They both are guilty of accepting Hector and Credence’s flights of fancy. 

The trip to Nice was a little over a month ago, and Auden has mixed feelings about it’s success. On the one hand, it was the first time they had travelled abroad together. On the other, Auden feels better acquainted with the limits of Hector’s frustrations. 

Auden studies Spanish and Early American Magic at Mission Kaknu and is hoping to work in translations when he graduates. At a fish market, a no-maj trader had called out to Auden, “Hola! Te veo, ah, te veo.” Sheer instinct, just a fold in the crease of human relations that he supposed Auden spoke his language. 

He didn’t want to buy any fish, he was just waiting for Hector to emerge from the _tabac_ , but he supposed there was no harm in being polite. The trader began telling him how delicious the mackerel is. He touches Auden’s chin and quips that a fancy boy like Auden probably prefers sea bass. 

Before Auden’s even really responded, Hector was at his side and the trader had doubled over, clutching the edge of his stall. He groans in pain, but lifts his head to grin determinedly at Hector and Auden. “Un calambre. Estoy bien.”

Auden had turned slowly, feeling dazed, to look at Hector. Hector had grinned and waved his acquired smokes at Auden. Grabbed him by the arm and dragged him down the promenade. He’d called callously out, “Adiós.” He’d laughed brashly when Auden had told him he was being foolish. 

Later, back at the hotel, he’d pinched the skin at the crook of Auden’s elbow and whispered how he just wanted to put Auden in a glass cage. Tie his wrists up and fuck him with the world watching, unable to touch. See the light shine through him. A world of our own, a pretty trap. 

Mr Graves’s friend suggests they have the spaghetti for dinner and they do. It cheers Auden somewhat. The tartness of the tomatoes and the warmth of the heavy pasta. Auden watches as Percival lays his arm over the back of Mr Graves’s chair and smiles adoringly at the side of his face. Auden looks at Hector and Hector puts a heavy hand on his knee. 

\---

It’s a bright morning. Credence is kneeling in bare feet in the grass of their yard, floral smock pressed into the earth under his shins. Percival is sat at the small bamboo table, quietly smoking, sipping at his orange juice. His husband is carefully tending to the roses without touching them. His magic resonates from him, making the air feel icy and tenuous. Like the smell of a new city or drinking gigglewater for the first time.

The renewed interest in the garden came with Hector’s departure to his final year at Ilvermorny. Credence is wary about what the following nine months will bring. He has already predicted end of school tensions to arise amongst Hector’s group of friends. Competitive and perceptive boys and girls who Credence has cherished when they came to visit and he is nervous of their forays into adulthood. 

Percival is so proud of Credence. It sometimes rings strange to him that he’s proud of Credence like he feels like he should be proud of Hector. He finds it difficult to justify to himself, but Credence has overcome _Gericault_ painted nightmares to be able to sit calmly applying magic, smile loitering of his face. 

Hector, in comparison, was always in safe hands. Credence, beautiful wonder that he is, raised Hector to be sweet and brave. Fierce and tender. Percival is not surprised that Hector is predicted to achieve some of the best results in his year, predicted offers on quidditch teams, colleges already circling with enticements of their revamped law degrees. 

Percival picks up his orange juice and walks over to sit next to Credence. Credence takes the glass from him and unfurls his legs and stretches them out in front of him. He wiggles his toes. The grass, Percival quickly realises is slightly damp and he’s going to have to change his trousers. He looks pointedly at Credence who giggles, leans his head back before pressing his palm to Percival’s chest. “It’s a garden!”

He tucks a tendril of errant curls behind Credence’s ear. “It’s very … natural.” Percival chuckles at Credence’s half-hearted glare and leans back on his hands. 

Credence’s eyes flutter and the roses drift an acute angle to face them. “Hector forgot his Yule robes.”

“Yes, I did notice. I think it’s a ploy to wrangle new ones out of us.”

Credence’s eyes narrow slightly. He chose those robes last year and he considers them very much still in fashion. They are a luxurious shade of green, with a soft garnet lining. “He can have new ones if he likes.”

Percival wraps an arm around his husband. “Of course, darling. Anything Hector wants.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I have spent a year giving speeches and many people in this room have spent a year listening to me.” The room titters politely at Director Graves’s small joke. “I’m sure you’re tired of my voice.” He plays self-deprecation, tilts his had to the side, eyes cast slightly upwards, hand on chest. “Today marks the end of that.” He smoothes the flat of his hands over the arcane and elaborate podium. “I am pleased to announce the amendments to Rappaport’s Law.” 

A flick of his wand and a large parchment unfurls behind and to the left of him, taking up a significant portion of the stage. The audience applauds and Percival and Seraphina’s eyes meet. The President is stood proud next to him, along with Lucas Jainsmere; the newly appointment no-maj reconciliation officer and Harriet Higgins, no-maj relations co-ordinator. 

The municipal ballroom is sparsely, but elegantly decorated. Enough of a show, not enough to arouse suspicion that MACUSA was in the habit of draining money. At a table close to stage sits Tina in a neat, navy suit. Percival saw her huffing at Queenie’s suggestion yesterday that they go buy her a nice dress for the occasion. 

“It’s a work event, Queenie. And some of these people are still watching.” 

Newt thinks she looks beautiful as always. He keeps looking over Theseus’s head at her. Ever the professional, Tina had selected his seat. Each time he cranes his neck, Thesesus thinks he’s still looking at his tie and blushes. They’ve got similar taste, accidentally matchy-match. 

Percival has never met Theseus’s wife before today, but she is a charming woman who went to speak to Percival in Gaelic and was pleasantly non-judgemental when he had to reply to her in English. Her quiet perceptiveness reminds him a lot of Queenie. Queenie has Jacob’s hand clutched in hers in case anyone tries anything. Jacob looks at ease, though. Smiling politely and waving at people he doesn’t know. 

It’s Credence though, Credence who’s eyes he is drawn back to, Time and time again. Credence who is listening ferociously. Who is looking at him hyper-focused, preserving this moment, no Pensieve required. Credence with gold cufflinks that twinkle, making Percival’s own wrists feel warm knowing that their swapped sets are forever paired, like them. 

Credence is wearing high-waisted coral trousers and a soft, white waistcoat. Percial called him peaches and cream that afternoon, and Percival’s brother had overheard from the hallway and laughed, deep and hearty. Percival is glad that Tristan is here, next to Credence, with Hector in his lap. 

Hector is obsessed with Tristan. Percival thinks it might have something to do with being an only child. Hector is forever asking Tristan questions about Percival, which could easily be answered by his father himself. 

“Did daddy like pears when he was my age?”

“Did daddy also go on the train to Chicago?”

“How long did it take daddy to learn leviosa?” 

“Was daddy a messy eater too?” when he spilled his soup at dinner, getting excited at Tristan’s presence. 

The Graves brothers are remarkably alike. The same dark eyes, the same laughter lines. Tristan is slightly taller and at eight years older than Percival, carries a cane. His hair is longer and he wears a petite, dangling obsidian earring. 

Tristan was a healer for many years before their mother, then their father became frail. After their passing, he took over the Graves family estate. Managing the lavender crop production and the honey sales. This visit, he has brought Credence a gold bumblebee pendent, enchanted to emanate the scent of lavender. He brought Hector a soft bumblebee teddy, a pouch on the tummy filled with dried lavender. 

Tristan had laughed as he passed over his gifts. “Forgive an old man his commercial interests.” Percival had rolled his eyes, aware of the need for diversification, but indulgent of Tristan’s imagination. Credence had kissed him on the cheek and Hector had shyly buried his nose into his uncle’s chest. 

Hector has a small arm wrapped around Tristan’s neck and is pinching at the lavender pin in his cravat. He’s watching Percival though. Keenly aware that daddy is making something important happen, even if he’s not quite sure what. 

“And so today is a celebration. While the need to be cautious remains, these reforms will allow our world to progress. Will give us independence, freedom and pride.” Percial places his right hand over his heart, his first two fingers extended. “Hope wells Adena - I make these pledges in your name. Mother fianna, accept my thanks.” He puts his head down and makes a circular motion in the air with his index and middle finger tight together, palm facing the crowd. The applause is muted, but lengthy. 

After, Tristan grips his shoulder in his firm hold. Whispers, “Good job” to him and Percival nearly blushes. Catches Tina’s eyes and she mouths silently, “Work event” at him before giggling and he quirks a smile at her. 

In a quiet moment, before thinking about heading home, Credence brushes up against him, catching his attention. Percival was just keeping an eye on Jacob who had stumbled into a conversation about radios with one of Percival’s most fervent critics. “You didn’t say it.” Credence holds his hands together in front of himself and casts his eyes to the floor. 

Percival touches under Credence’s chin, making him look at him. “They made me keep telephones illegal, Credence. Telling them I want us to help the no-maj world would not have gone over well.”

Credence stays silent. Looking into the proud eyes of his beautiful husband. His husband who he adores. Who not only saved him, but allowed Credence to save him in return. Credence nods and presses their lips together, tasting delicate strawberry wine. 

\---

Credence has a ragged bit of paper clenched between his fingers. His protruding knuckles a bitter yellow. The ink is smeared, but he is defiantly reading ahead. His eyes are watering and his low voice rattles, “I, I-hrm” plate on the precipice of a table edge. 

“He’s a child! Look at the thing, he can barely speak. You can’t put him to death.”

Percival’s eyes tilt upwards to where Professor Benedict is leaning over the balcony of the enclosed octagon chamber. His comments are not helpful. A man who has spent his career attempting to reclassify the status of no-maj born witches and wizards. For their own protection, of course. Incapable of the responsibility of magical agency, lock ‘em up in gilded cages. His research and values are a scary combination of patronising and demonising. 

The President silences the murmurs that have erupted around the room at the outburst. She keeps her eyes on Credence. She dips her head minutely to encourage him to continue speaking. She does not smile. The child is indeed facing the death penalty. 

Credence grips his paper and pushes his fists down, rallying courage. He looks up at the man who called him a child. Looks him directly in the eyes. Credence can see the rims of his thumbnails turn black. The magic is leaking. Melting liquorice over his thumb knuckles and into the cuffs of his shirt. He breathes hard and in a rush says in an over-loud voice, “I’m twenty-four.” He feels the magic pauses at his elbows, thoughtfully circle the joint. “I’m not a child.”

The room is silent. 

“I can’t explain magic. I don’t know what this is.” He shakes his paper, as though the magic would shirk out of his sleeves like water. It doesn’t move. “Nobody will tell me what this is.” He shakes his paper again with more vigour. He throws it down and abruptly stands up. He flicks his wrists fast. The magic drips from his fingertips, resentfully reforms as a fine mist at Credence’s feet. 

He implores the audience. “Where I come from, this is the work of the devil.”

The gathered members of MACUSA do not like the mention of this word and begin hurriedly whispering to one another. President Picquery slowly rises from her seat, holding her hands up. The room grows quiet and yet she still does not speak.

Credence stares at her, worried and panicked. “The devil makes me do things I don’t want to do. I wake up in strange places and feel sick inside. He doesn’t tempt me, he already has me.” He hangs his head. 

Seraphina’s eyes catch Percival. He makes for a sorry sight. Helixes of humming magic orbit his left knee. Weakened by a culmination of dark spells feeling to the bones there, as the healers worked over him after his rescue. The scruff at his chin and cheeks is thickening and more grey than his hair. He isn’t wearing a tie. Nor his elegantly tailored coat, but a thick tartan house-jacket. He is watching Credence not with a blank face, but his mouth is puckered in thought and one eyebrow is lifted. 

She looks to her bench of council members. They’re watching Percival as though this decision is his. As though, like a novel, he might stand up and limp over to Credence. Embrace Credence like a long-lost son. He doesn’t. He wouldn’t. It’s not his place. As though sensing he’s being watched, he turns his head to Seraphina. His eyes widen slightly as the council members continue to gaze at him, hypnotised by the dissidence between what they expect to happen and what is happening. 

She nods. She carefully angles her wrist and a thick envelope appears before her. “Credence Barebone. You are a wizard. It is not the devil inside you. It is an Obscurus. There is no non-magical equivalent to it. Even we can not fully explain the phenomenon.” She plucks the envelope from the air. “For now, we will say that you are unwell. You must get better.”

Seraphina walks towards Credence. A young lady in an olive green skirt and matching cape appears from the edge of the room and follows. “This is Harriet.” For the first time, Credence looks up and his mouth falls open at Harriet. Her hair in dark, tight curls, radiates a halo. “Harriet is going to take you to your new home.” Seraphina hands over the envelope to Credence. “And then, tomorrow morning she is going to take you to the first of regular hospital appointments.”

She quickly grips Credence’s elbows and in a fierce voice says, “This is your life Credence. You are twenty-four. You are a wizard. You are going to get healthy, you are going to learn and you are going to live.” She lets go of his right elbow but moves her hand down his left forearm to clutch at his wrist. She pulls his arm into the air and turns them in a slow circle, catching eyes with every important person in the wizarding world. “Hope wells Adena - I make these pledges in your name. Mother fianna, accept my thanks.” She circles his wrist, pointer and second finger upwards towards the ceiling.

The audience applauses. Several people leave, shouting about injustice and danger, slamming doors on their way out. More, smile at Credence. Credence frees his arm from Seraphina and twists his torso, searching out the one person whose smile he wants to see. Mr Graves is not smiling. He is rubbing a hand across his left thigh. Eyes pinched slightly. Credence goes to step towards him, but Harriet catches him around the waist. She ducks her head deliberately in the direction of the envelope Credence has. Veins of marble have spilled across it. He gasps, his resolve distracted, Harriet pulls him towards the door. Away from the ongoing discussion. Away from the people discussing him. 

In the cool gloom of the hallway, the magic trickles into the cracks of the floorboards with a brush of Credence’s fingers against the soft paper. “There,” Harriet says. She straightens her pillbox hat and fluffs the yellow feathers protruding from it. “There. See, I knew I was right. That’s not a true Obscurus. It responds to you, as much as you respond to it.” 

Credence looks at her, mournfully. He has no idea what she’s trying to tell him. She cocks her head. “Ah, not to worry.” She takes his elbow and touches a finger to the envelope. “We’ll get you settled in your new apartment. Books and medicine can come later.” They begin walking towards the glass exit. She rolls her lips together. “Do ya like jazz?”

Credence shrugs. He doesn’t know. He twitches his shoulders, as he can suddenly hear a tinkling piano in his ears that he recognises hearing from when he’d been around the city handing out pamphlets. He frowns in confusion at Harriet and the music stops. 

She smiles. “That’s Willy ‘the Lion’ Smith. Good, right?”

They walk out into the sunshine. A boy in shorts is shaking his fist at what must be his sister. She’s got a candy bar in her mouth and is laughing loudly around it. A man in a suit is walking quickly and is wrestling a newspaper to allow him to read as he speeds along. A car runs out of gas and comes to screeching halt at the edge of the pavement. The passenger groans and throws his hands up, before tripping comically out of the door, ignoring the protests of the driver.

Harriet and Credence are about the same height and when he turns his head, they are eye to eye. With her still holding his elbow, they are nearly nose to nose. “Yes. It is.” He wrinkles his nose and is close to giggles at the ludicrousness of it all. Tipping his head back, the warmth of the day falling across his pale face. Opening his eyes, he spies a figure in the hall behind them. Watching them from the shadows. Leaning to one side to accommodate a pain in one knee. 

“Mr Graves.”

\---

Percival is in his childhood bedroom, stood before a floor length mirror that is a recent, adulthood purchase. He is attempting to tie a forest green cravat at his throat, but his trembling fingers are not co-operating. Worse, is the lavender sprig pin, waiting impatiently to be added. His hands fall to his side and he takes a moment to shake his left leg out. His knee no longer needs around the clock medication, but sometimes his irritation funnels it’s way to the cap, making it itching and achy. 

Tristan is passing the open door on his way to his own room to grab his formal cashmere robe. It’s a lovely pink, drapes artfully at his shoulders and easily compliments the lavender pin holding it in place. Percival’s bedroom makes him pause. He leans in. “You’ve got the lights off, silly.” Swishes his forefinger in a lazy loop and the room brightens considerably. 

His younger brother turns to him and puts his hands on his hips. “Ah, I see.” Tristan makes his way over to Percival and begins arranging the cravat. 

“Maybe,” Percival coughs. “Maybe, I shouldn’t go.”

Tristan reaches for the pin on the desk behind Percival. “And why should you not go?” He uncaps the golden protective lid.

There’s a quiet in which Tristan gently pushes the pin through the silk and tugs at Percival’s collar. When he’s done, he steps back and pokes Percival in the bicep to get him to turn towards the mirror. 

“That’s good. Thank you.”

“Good. Let me get dressed and then we’ll go.”

Percival sighs, but Tristan ignores him and swirls on his heels. In his own room, without the aid of a mirror, the robe floats from above him and glides around his neck. It has been good having Percival at the estate. It has been horrible dealing with what brought Percival to the estate. Recreating scenes played out with their sick parents with Percival. Mrs Skagit handing in her resignation at his foul and unpredictable temper erupting amongst the beehives one day. Tristan finding empty whisky bottles in strange places. Percival crying in the middle of the night. Tristan and Mr Booth, their sturdy estate cook crying in the kitchen together. Millie, the lavender gardener apprentice crying with the delivery girl at the woeful situation. 

Tristan touches his fingertips to his shoulders. Turns side to side. In any case, today is a good day. 

They disapparate alongside one another to the gravel path leading up to a small cottage in an upstate New York wood. Tristan goes to walk towards where a linen tent has been set up with gay bunting, but Percival grabs his wrist. “I’m just her boss. Should I really be here?” He says it in a flurry. In a high, quick voice that Tristan had never heard from his brave, rational brother before the incident. 

Tristan takes Percival’s hands in his. “You are not just her boss. You are her friend. You both like chess and cream pastries. You both over-analyse and are too stubborn for your own good. You both, no matter how bizarre I find it” Tristan grins at Percival “enjoy quidditch more than quodpot.” Percival manages a small, huff of a laugh. 

“Tina is marrying that odd, little English fellow whose brother you seem to like.” Tristan swings their arms. He’s teasing. “And you are gong to be there.” He lets go of Percival’s hands and grips Percival’s shoulder, facing them in the direction of the tent. They stand together. The day is mild for fall and the air smells of pumpkin and coal burning. A breeze brushes at their hair. “Credence is going to be there. He’s probably in a suit Harriet bought him.”

Percival doesn’t say anything.

“You’re going to tell him he looks nice.”

Tristan’s hand squeezes Percvial’s shoulder and he laughs. “Hope wells Adena - I make these pledges in your name. Mother fianna, accept my thanks.”

A chuckle is startled from Percival and he shakes Tristan from him. Laughing together Percival cuffs at Tristan’s ear, but the jewellery there catches his knuckle. “Ow, gosh, you little-“ Percival bats at Tristan’s head, laughing all the while, as Tristan squawks and ducks, laughing loud.


	4. Chapter 4

Credence refuses to apparate or disapparate. When he agreed to work with Miss Jude, he went into town and bought a no-maj bicycle. It’s sturdy and bottle green and manages to trundle him around wizarding Manhattan relatively safely. He knows Percival tries not to laugh every time he wheels it from their under-the-stairs cupboard but he doesn’t care. It’s a good bike and it gets him to the orphanage, Home Eileithyia in good time. 

It gives him the independence that he sometimes still feels he doesn’t have in his new world. Weighted down by simple not-knowing, he spent a lot of time enclosed in the house. Mostly, he wanted to be there. Getting familiar with his magic, and later being with Hector. They created their own world together. Him and his son. 

When Credence had first met Miss Jude at a MACUSA Christmas party a number of years ago, he hadn’t thought she was serious. He wasn’t sure what skills or talent he could possibly offer her or the orphanage. Now though, with Hector away Ilvermorny and Miss Jude’s offer still standing, he had asked Percival his opinion on the matter. 

Percival had cupped his jaw in his hands and kissed him slowly, kitten licking at his top lip, getting Credence to part his mouth. Pulling away, to kiss behind his ear, Percival had whispered, “This is your life and you are going to live it.”

Over the past few months he has spent more time with the children and with Miss Violet, the accountant for Home Eileithyia. He’s growing more confident. More able to express his opinion. He feels like he’s finally able to provide valuable help. 

Credence is playing a game of _Gold Bug_ with a no-maj born wizard who Credence would describe as the exact opposite of Hector. The boy, like Hector is struggling being away at Ilvermorny and is home for the weekend. He had a very tearful morning and so Credence had agreed to come pay him a visit. At home Credence and Hector had perfected colour transfiguration. Credence knows more about the curriculum now and is positive that George will be able to impress his teachers by transitioning the frames of his thick glasses through the rainbow. 

“Niffler,” notes George. The lettered tiles on the board scuttle into position, spelling the word out. 

“Oh, yes. Well done. Good spot.”

Credence would very much like it if George and Hector were to become friends, but he knows it would be inappropriate to suggest. It wouldn’t be fair to have Hector introduce himself to George, revealing their connection to the whole of Pukwudgie house. He supposes they may find each other eventually. 

After Miss Jude had firecalled the Graves household, Credence had looked at Hector curled up on the sofa, book of Arthurian legends in his lap, completely absorbed and made up his mind. “Hector, you wouldn’t mind would you if I went over to Home Eileithyia?”

Hector’s eyes widen as though worried Credence did in fact have plans to take his away from his warm spot on the sofa and the good bit he’s got to in his book. “No.”

Credence had stood up from the fireplace and sat down next to Hector, kissed the top of his head. Percival, bringing in the third cups of tea on this Saturday morning had settled the tray on the coffee table and taken his turn kissing the top of Hector’s head. Leant over Hector’s book and ignored his protests to kiss Credence too. 

Once Credence had finished his tea and trundled out the door with his bike, Percival rounded on Hector. “Alright then, lad. Go get dressed. We’re off to the museum.”

The Museum of American Magic is big neo-classical affair, with decadent anachronistic baroque interior. Built during a period of wizarding patriotism after Salem, it holds North America’s largest collection of magical artefacts and important artworks. Percival loves it. The quiet majesty of the place. The knowledge that no matter what may happen, no matter what evil besets them, the history of the world is safe here. 

They aimlessly wander, as they’ve been here many times before. They spend a long time at the portrait of Bartholomew Barebone. Despite common knowledge that he was a handsome man, it is an unflattering likeness. Full of illicit biblical symbolism, deliberately breaking _Rappaport’s Law_ to make an artistic statement. A serpent slithers over his boots and on a spindly table in the foreground, a salt shaker has toppled. It revolves continually, standing up straight before spilling salt over the table, the floor, the edge of Barebone’s coat. Hector always wants to look at this painting. Throughout the museum he constantly asks questions, never here though. Not about the recognisable surname. Not about the bowl of rotting apples, tumbling behind the edge of the frame. 

Before lunch, Hector grows tired and Percvial hoists him onto his hip to carry him down a long corridor lined by status of great wizards and witches towards the small canteen. 

“Daddy, where are the twelve Aurors?”

“Well, we saw them in the portrait in the entryway. Gondulphus waved at you. That was nice.”

“Hmm.” Hector looks around thoughtfully as Percival continues to walk. “They should be here, though. They should have statues.”

As Percival puts Hector down and a friendly witch hands them a dining tray, he says, “These things take time.”

\---

His mother isn’t talking to him. Hector is fuming and refuses to let Credence get away with it. Credence has been trying to escape him all morning, but Hector has stuck doggedly to his side. For now, Credence has given up and they are sat opposite one another at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Credence has his chin in his hand and is looking out the window. Hector has his hands folded around his coffee cup and is frowning at mommy. 

Hector is at home after a trip to Boston. Auden had sold his quaint house in San Francisco and bought a quaint house in Boston. It sickened Hector. He’d been tempted to pull Auden’s pale blue dinner plates from the china cupboard, just to hear their smash on the cream tiled floor. He hadn’t. It wouldn’t have been worth the Reparo. 

Auden’s hair had grown long, past his shoulders. It didn’t suit him. He didn’t clip it back in swoops like Hector’s mother, but had braided it neatly to the back of his head. It makes Hector suspicious because Auden now lives in a wizarding district and his next door neighbour is a tall, strong-jawed man, who wears his black hair in two colourful braids that swish about his waist. 

Their relationship had shifted somewhat since Auden had moved. Auden refused to use the illegal telephone that Hector had gifted him and often refused to accept his firecalls if it was a weeknight. Hector’s owls more frequently return to him with one word messages. 

He’s pleased for Auden, of course he is. He gets to do what he loves, for the Historical Society of Ancient Magic, no less. It’s a new initiative fostering relations between American and Mexican wizarding societies. It’s great. Super swell. Hector’s got no idea what the point of it all is. He grew tired of this political nonsense as soon as he left his parent’s house. 

He was staring at Auden’s crockery, when Auden had startled him with a kiss to his shoulder. Hector had whirled, clipping Auden with the back of his hand. “Oh! I didn’t- Honestly, Auden. You know, I-“

Auden brushed a hand over his cheek and smiled. “I know.” He leaned forward to kiss Hector on the mouth. Had let Hector push him against the cabinet, fuck him from behind. Loudly, making sure the damn neighbour knew what they were doing. Hector had come inside Auden and after, leant up against the cupboard, had angled his hand to push his fingers back inside the tight heat, ignoring Auden’s scrunched nose and high whine. A too forceful jab upset the plates on the top shelf, bringing them raining down. Hector had laughed. High and surprised. Auden had sighed quietly and wiped blood from his thighs. 

Hector’s mother had apparently received a panicked call in the middle of the night, when the bleeding had refused to abate, despite liberal smearing of topical cream. Credence had whispered spells over the telephone, teaching Auden quickly and efficiently. Auden leaving the bed had woken Hector and he’d watched as Auden stood naked in the hallway, voice quivering in the gloom of the hour, delicately obeying his mother. 

In the bright morning, Hector had laid out toast and orange juice and served Auden a swift, deliberate slap. “Call your own mother.” Hector was only teaching Auden a lesson. A lesson mommy apparently had left out the night before. You don’t call somebody else’s mother to heal you up. And in any case, Auden shouldn’t be calling anybody, he’s a smart kid. 

“Oh, and you can answer the phone when I call. Now you’ve decided it’s not illegal.”

Auden had nodded and eaten the toast. They had gone down to the harbour and spent a nice day together. Auden had shown him his office and let Hector sit in his brown, leather chair and Hector had let Auden blow him. Mouth sloppy, but teeth careful. Hector paid him back with a selection of books Auden picked out at a no-maj shop. 

The trouble came, when Hector had travelled from Boston to his parents’ house. Either daddy didn’t know what had taken place or had agreed that Hector was right as he greeted Hector as he usually did, before inviting him to help prepare an elaborate welcome home dinner. Mommy didn’t even look at him. The evening had been somewhat strained. When daddy had stroked the back of his neck and kissed his cheek before bed, mummy looked away. Hector decided that he had not tattled. 

“I’m going to ask Auden to marry me.”

Credence’s neck snaps his head away from the window. His eyes are narrowed, dark. Carefully, he neutralises his face, stoic. “You don’t live in the same city.”

“No. Somebody in Boston must need an up-and-coming architect.” Hector grins. 

Credence does not say anything. 

“Anyway, you’re not meant to say that. You’re meant to say, ‘Gosh, that’s exciting Hector, have you bought a ring?’”

Mother and son stare at one another. Credence swallows. 

“Well, you don’t need to ask because I have.” He tucks a hand inside his waistcoat and pulls out a thin gold band, cradling a subtle, white diamond. 

“Gosh, Hector, that’s pretty.” Credence’s voice is flat. His eyes shimmer with sarcasm. 

Hector stands, the legs of his chair rough over the floor. He looms over the table. Credence sits calmly back. He places his left hand over his heart and Hector is pushed back into his seat. He struggles, attempting to rise again, before realising he won’t be able to. 

He watches his mother. Credence gets to his feet and brushes his hands over his gardening smock. He knows mommy is scared of him, but he forgets that for a very long time he was quite scared of mommy. 

“You should stay a while. Take your time. Think about things.” Credence walks towards his roses and holds his breath over a sob, cheeks puffing out. Shaking his hands, black spatters across the wide, linen pockets.

\---

Hector is sulking. He’s sick of Artie. Artie with his stupid red curls and stupid big mouth. They had been studying for the upcoming History of Magic midterm and it was raining. Louise was worried about a pot of Shrivelfigs she had left outside the greenhouse. Hector was grouchy because quidditch practice had been cancelled. 

That’s when Artie had called him sissy for playing quidditch and not quodpot. Artie’s mouth had sneered at Hector and Hector. Taller than Artie, if not wider. Sturdy, chaser strength coiled in his biceps if not his torso like Artie. Quick to anger unlike Artie had punched him in that stupid, stupid mouth of his. The flat of his fist kissing the soft flesh of Artie’s red lips. Hector could feel the wet porcelain edge of Artie’s teeth across his knuckles. 

He’s sulking and he doesn’t care who knows it. It was Friday lunchtime, so he’d been sent home for the weekend. The library assistant - some swotty senior, had seen the whole thing and sent him off to Madam Moreau’s office, like it was common, stupid, fucking knowledge that she was keeping an eye on Hector. She hadn’t even told him off. She held out a tray of French peppermints and asked him if he would like to use her floo in a voice that meant he didn’t have a choice. 

Mommy’s at a meeting, over at Home Eileithyia. Hector had come through the living room fireplace with such bluster, nearly knocking the ugly vase his mother likes from the mantle. He stomped over to the couch and threw himself down on it and folded his arms close to his chest. When daddy had come home from work, his thick eyebrows didn’t even rise at the presence of Hector. He had sighed and ruffled Hector’s hair before heading into the kitchen, taking his coat off as he went. 

“Come on. Here we go.” Daddy sits down next to Hector and crosses one leg over the other, the toe of his smart black shoe just brushing Hector’s shin. He stretches an arm out along the back of the sofa, crowding Hector in and proffers a steaming mug of hot cocoa. Hector tires to ignore him, but it’s chocolate. He looks at daddy with wary eyes, before sitting up and accepting the gift. 

“There, now. Are you going to tell me what happened?” 

Hector blows at the steam curling at the edges of his mug. Daddy undoes the top button of his waistcoat and detaches the MACUSA identification pin from the inside pocket and leans forward to put it in a small burnish oak box on the coffee table. Hector shrugs. 

Daddy sits back, leans his elbow on the sofa’s soft edge to bring his hand up, supporting his head as he looks at Hector. He sighs again. He reaches a finger out and strokes at the grazes on Hector’s hand wrapped around the mug. “Fighting?”

Hector shrugs. He’s embarrassed. But he’s also cross. Stupid Artie. 

Percival thinks that somewhere, a shiver has just gone down Madam Moreau’s spine. Her long years as a teacher sensing when a student is not receiving the reprimand they should. He knows he should be telling  
Hector about how to deal with his problems in a calm, rational manner. And yet. Part of him strongly suspects that Hector knows what he did was wrong. Assessing Hector’s wounds, it appears to Percival that it was probably a one-punch job. Hector not realising his own strength. And with the way Hector’s pouting Percival assumes it was the best friend, that Artie kid, who had been on the receiving end. 

He sighs. He shuffles up close to Hector and takes the cocoa out of his grasp and places it on the table, ignores his urge to place down a coaster first. He cups Hector’s hands in his and smoothes at the rough cuts. They blur and heal at his touch. Hector breathes heavily at the slight stinging and at the after-scent of tea-tree. Percival wraps his arms around his son, hugging him tight. “Alright. Good boy,” he whispers at the sound of Hector’s muffled sniffing. He strokes his hand through Hector’s butter blonde hair.


End file.
